


a chance to dance for you

by Chairman



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Getting Back Together, Hadestown References, M/M, Musical theater AU, Smoking, auditions, gratuitous references to musicals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairman/pseuds/Chairman
Summary: After several failed attempts to get an acting career started in LA, Hermes returns to New York and his Broadway roots. Auditioning does have one major downside though: his ex just happens to be a major Broadway producer.
Relationships: Background Than/Zag/Meg, Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game), Hermes & Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

_Tap, turn, tap-tap. Arms up, pivot step, hold the silhouette._

He could do this in his sleep.

 _Arms swing right then left, look down, leg back. Hold for the second group, then walk down stage left_.

He’s done this in his sleep.

The pianist is playing too slow, makes Hermes want to shout at her that she’s here for accompaniment, not virtuoso. Still, he adjusts to the rhythm and hits the beats the best he can, his mind moving a mile a minute as his lizard brain takes over to dance the routine for him, muscle memory and epinephrine doing more work than any part of his frontal cortex.

He’s in the third line, which is unlucky as the first two seem to be comprised of giants. His diminutive 5’2 sank into the background, even with his bright orange jumpsuit. He does double time for the casting director, his every movement crisp and precise, with a little bit of ostentatious flair thrown in when he isn’t trying to avoid being kicked or slapped by the people next to him.

From the looks of others in the room, he has a good chance of getting a callback. As long as the assistant choreographer isn’t a moron and asks for two more line changes, then he’d be in front and really able to show the casting team his stuff.

As much as he’s hoping for a chance to be properly seen, there’s also a cold pit in his stomach hoping desperately that he’d disappear. Or that one specific person wouldn’t be sitting at the table, looking out at the sea of nobodies desperate to get a chorus gig on Broadway.

The line shuffles forward, and Hermes breathes a sigh as he gets a better glimpse of the casting table. Just four sets of boring suits and sweaters, with the choreographer sitting at the end sticking out like an eccentric sore thumb. You gotta be a bit weird if you’re still choreographing _Cats_ after all this time.

The good news, the line shifts one more time and he’s in front. The bad news, they’re going through the Jellicle adagio (is that what they’re calling it? Last time Hermes was in a production they just called it the ‘fuck dance’), and his body is not meant to go _slow_. His muscles twitch as he holds his leg in the air, wondering if actual cats have to endure this indignity. Surely not.

The day is called with him back in the last row, and he gladly rips the number off his chest and stuffs it in his bag. He takes his bag and goes to the changing room, abandoning his sweat-covered orange jumpsuit for jeans and a low V-neck, which he wears to auditions just in case they’re looking for someone with a little pizzazz.

He stuffs his belongings in his bag, checks to make sure he has his phone and wallet, then pops in his earbuds and returns to the uncaring streets of New York City.

It’s been four months since he stopped bumming around with his half-siblings, packed his bags, and drove across the country to…bum around with his half-sister. In Jersey. In his defense, Athena lives a mere thirty minute drive and hour-long train ride away from the city, and maybe New York is the place to be for a thirty-two year-old has-been child star looking for some meaningful purpose in life.

Aphrodite had said he could stay as long as he liked, but he knows he was getting on her last nerve. Even inside a gigantic seaside mansion, three’s a crowd when a suitor is over, and even if he isn’t a prude he still doesn’t appreciate lying in bed knowing that somewhere in the house debauchery beyond his wildest imagination was happening. (Well okay, he could imagine some of it. Aphrodite had given him a tour of her sex room when he moved in.) His presence in the guest bedroom also meant she couldn’t host orgies like she used to, and that’s one thing Hermes files under “tried it in college, not for him personally.”

So he packs his backs and drives a surprisingly resilient turtle across the entire continental United States to move in with his consultant sister Athena, who is more than happy to share her spacious Jersey home. Better than the other options: DC is a wash, he knows from experience that living with Ares is like living in a warzone; he’s not ready to become _that_ _guy_ who moves to Portland, even if Artemis is one of his more bearable half-siblings; and if Portland is out of the question, so is Cape Cod. New York is the place to be if you’re an actor who couldn’t make it in Hollywood, and he more than fits that bill.

Coming back to New York City is like coming home, except it’s a home that’s already kicked you to the curb and asks, what the hell are you doing back here, son? The streets haven’t changed a bit but the shop fronts have; Broadway marquees and the sides of taxis advertising shows he hasn’t even heard of. The rush and the bustle of people with places to go and things to do, rushing, always rushing by without a care for who they’re passing. A city to disappear in.

And boy, does he want to disappear.

After a month of job searching without a single bite, Hermes downloads a handful of apps and immerses himself in the gig economy. His faithful sedan which carried him across the country got a deep clean at the Lexus car dealership and soon became one of the hundreds, if not thousands, of Uber/Lyft combos. He’s printed out the stickers and everything.

He makes his way uptown to Athena’s business building, then dips off to the side to the parking garage nearby. Bless his sister for mainly working from home and being willing to give him her parking spot. As much as Hermes loves the bustle of the city, he’s been pressed up against a subway door one too many times to not count his blessings on a parking spot and private transportation.

Driving around New York is a nightmare, but it’s a welcome distraction. Hermes takes a drink from his water bottle and does a quick smell check on his shirt. Unfortunately, he’s pretty rank after the audition, so grabbing a couple of quick rideshares is a no-go.

Taking in a deep breath, Hermes switches his music from his earbuds to the car stereo and begins to drive home.

His phone just finishes saying “Welcome to New Jersey” when the call comes in. Hermes fumbles as he puts the call on speaker, heart pounding despite the stop and go traffic.

A voice he vaguely recalls from the beginning of the day speaks through the phone. Hermes catches every other word, but he’s heard enough calls like this to know what it means.

He’s made it to day two.

After he hangs up the call, he pounds the steering wheel with his hands and gives an excited “Whoop!” in the car.

Back in the day he used to be _scouted_ for shows. But now, a bit role in one of musical theater’s most derided shows is enough to get him pumped up for the rest of the drive home. He’s buzzed, and wants to share the excitement with someone. He scrolls through his contact list, almost coming up blank until—

“Coz! You won’t believe the news I have?”

“Is that so?” Zagreus says from the other line through obscene levels of static. Wherever the boy is, he’s probably underground. “I must say, I have some exciting news myself.”

“Well who am I to spoil the delivery of good news then? Out with it, boss, then I can dampen the celebrations with my own paltry offering.”

“No need to be humble, Hermes, I’m sure your news is wonderful. You wanted to share something, I insist that you go first.”  
  


“Boss,” Hermes interrupts, “if we are going to do the whole Chip n’ Dale routine then I’ll cut to the chase. Guess which of your favorite tap-dancing, amateur b-boy, ex-parkour former child star cousins, has been selected for day two of the new production of _Cats_?”

“That’s wonderful Herm—did you say _Cats_?” His disbelief is palpable even through the static. “Hermes… _Cats_ is awful.”

“Watch it, coz, you’re talking to a former Magical Mister Mistofelees.”

“Oh my god,” Zagreus whispers.

“A-anyways,” Hermes presses onward. If his cousin doesn’t see the joy in the possibility of employment, then so be it. “What do _you_ have worth celebrating, boss?”

There’s a pause, then footsteps. Next time Zagreus speaks, his voice comes through much clearer. “I’m actually venturing into the theater world myself. Got a set design job on a new show.”

“That’s great!” Hermes says, and means it. “Finally putting that architecture degree to good use, huh? Well then, tell me more!”  
  
He listens as Zagreus begins to describe the show. It seems to be in its rough early stages, but he catches the words “Greek mythology,” “post-apocalyptic,” and “Americana,” and he can’t say he’s not intrigued. They talk a little about recent revivals and new trends, the things Hermes has missed the past seven years while in California.

He’s happy for Zagreus, he truly is. The poor kid’s been under his strict father’s thumb his entire life, positioned from day one to take over the law firm. Getting a master’s in architecture instead of going to law school was his first rebellion, and while he’s not disowned, his relations with his father are chilly _at best_. Good thing there’s another dysfunctional family ready to take him in.

“A big upgrade from designing a brewery to this, huh?” he laughs, though they both know the brewery Zagreus designed for Dionysus got featured in multiple newspapers as an innovative approach to managing light and temperature. Which Hermes is sure are important factors in beer.

“I’m absolutely proud of the brewery and you can’t convince me otherwise,” Zagreus insists. “ _You_ try integrating the aesthetics of brewing beer with a vineyard. My solutions were brilliant.”  
  
“They were, they were,” Hermes laughs. “But hey, that means you’re staying in the city? We can totally meet up and grab lunch someday. ‘Specially since we’ll be in the same area.”

“Definitely,” Zagreus laughs, and they fall back into conversation about the production team. Hermes is surprised to hear that Eurydice, a recording artist he’s followed for some time, is one half of the composer duo. Good for her.

As Zagreus continues to list people involved in the project—most of them names he’s heard before, common collaborators with Nyx’s theater, The Underworld. He’s surprisingly fine talking about his ex’s mom. Maybe it’s the fact that she has so many children, spread into the very fabric of New York. From Thanatos working at the public library to the Fates’ pop-up bookshop, her children are spread like spiderwebs throughout the city. Besides, Nyx herself is a nice person, from the brief meetings he’s had with her. She hasn’t changed much since then, based on the rare feature article about her Hermes has come across. Still as regal and enigmatic as ever.

They keep up the conversation as Hermes pulls into the driveway, switching from speaker to his headphones. Zagreus is apparently renting an apartment with Thanatos—a situation Hermes has Opinions about, if only he has someone to gossip with. Maybe he’ll call up Aphrodite when he finishes up this call, though that conversation would still be on a timer, as even her love of hot goss is tempered with her patience with his verbosity.

He feels oddly energized when the conversation ends. He hasn’t talked so freely in a while, and once the dam of words has been burst they don’t stop coming out. He checks in on Athena in her office, but the door is closed in an unequivocal “Do Not Disturb.”

All but shaking from the excess energy, Hermes makes his way to the gym: a side room with large glass sliding doors giving off lots of natural light, facing the meticulously planned garden growing herbs and vegetables all year round. A row of sunflowers shields the room from any prying eyes.

The room isn’t state-of-the-art by any means, but Athena has a treadmill and cycling equipment, along with a few weights and a yoga mat. Most of the room is dedicated to being open space, which Hermes appreciates as he has come to use it as a makeshift dance studio. This day, however, he heads straight for the treadmill after changing out of his street clothes into an old T-shirt and shorts.

He pulls up an EDM playlist and begins to run, hoping to transfer the words bubbling inside his chest can be transferred into simple, uncomplicated motion.

-

Callbacks takes place inside the theater proper. Hermes strolls in, the air of confidence about him only half bravado. Time may have passed, but theaters still smell the same: velvet seats and stale popcorn, pine polish on the stage and dust in the stage. This is home, he thinks, far beyond the Malibu flats of his childhood and the warm but foreign homes of his siblings. The first true feelings of freedom, cultivated in dance studios and unleashed onstage.

Now and always, he belongs on the stage.

The stage doesn’t welcome him back the same way, but he doesn’t expect it to. He’s used to passive, distant parents, of people giving up on any semblance of conversation and treating him like a very talkative parrot. It’s been a long time since he’s given and expected anything back.

He arrives just as the previous flight is packing up, and a few early birds like him stand in the sidelines, all doing some combination of stretching, fidgeting, and psyching themselves up for the audition.

With the social graces of Regina George, Hermes sidles up next to the closest person, who is currently splayed on the floor, stretching their hips.

“Excited for the audition?” he says, dropping down to their level and doing some hip flexor exercises of his own. “They sure have a big venue for this—of course this is _Sir_ Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Cats we’re talking about, so that’s to be expected. You think they’re going to build an entire junkyard again, or go more for theater of the mind? I’m pretty sure they have a turntable here, wonder if the director is going to do anything with it.”

The person next to him turns away, clearly not up for conversation. Hermes shrugs and puts in his headphones, starting up some EDM music to get himself in the mood.

“I’m a cat,” he mutters to himself, and chuckles so loudly the person next to him gets up and moves to the other side of the warmup area.

More people are filing in, and he makes pleasant conversation with some of them as they come in, commenting on whatever tidbit he notices about them. Most of the others ignore him, though he does get a couple of good chats from some people.

“You know at another audition the choreographer called out—yes, called out—the ‘Cats hands.’ Like, sure man, that’s how the hands go in Cats but isn’t it a good thing to get a glimpse of my resume?”

From the several glares he gets as he initiates conversations, he assumes other people aren’t here to make friends or chat about shoes. The other dancers probably think he’s trying to get into their heads, but he legitimately just wants to talk with others. Okay, maybe he just wants to talk _at_ them, but can he be blamed for pre-audition jitters? He needs constant sound and movement to get in the zone; if he just stood in a corner until auditions started, he’d start to get in his head, and ask shitty questions like “Why the hell are you auditioning for Cats? Again?”

Places are called, and he follows everyone else to the center of the stage. As Hermes gets a better glance at the audition table, his blood runs cold.

Even before he sees his face, he knows Charon is there. He knows because he sees that damned broad-brimmed hat.

Hermes had given it to him as a joke one Halloween, when he had convinced him to dress up as the Phantom of the Opera. It had been the perfect costume: Charon’s tall, twiglike frame practically makes him look like a skeleton already, and the man practically exudes an air of murder. Charon went along with Hermes, but was somehow taken with the fedora; he began wearing it everywhere it was acceptable to be wearing a hat, and sometimes even in places where it was frowned upon, including at his then-job at an investment firm. He didn’t stop, even as the connotations of a man wearing a fedora changed into something both he and Hermes found unsavory. And it seems like he’s still wearing it, ten years on.

God, it’s really been more than ten years. More than a decade ago, when Hermes was just another struggling student actor at NYU and Charon was working 9 to 5. Up to when they parted, with Hermes on a plane for LA and Charon quitting his job. Then silence, silence Hermes doesn’t want to think about now, as he is filing in line with a number pinned to his chest and the possibility of employment on the line.

As they begin the familiar routines, he can’t help but take occasional peeks at the man sitting at the table, see how the years may have changed him. The accursed hat hides most of his features, but Hermes can see Charon’s sharp, clean-shaven chin and mouth twisted in a perpetual frown. He wonders if Charon’s lips are still always chapped, wonders if the rest of his hair has gone prematurely grey. He can’t see any of Charon’s hair, but hopes that it’s because he’s tied it up in a ponytail behind him. It would be a shame if he had cut his hair.

Still the same narrow frame, though from the definition in his shirt he must have started working out. Clothing all black and grey, with a dash of purple—it had been all too easy to dress him up as the Phantom.

Hermes feels his heart beating fast in his chest, and swallows a lump in his throat. All the fear, the mental prepping, does nothing to help his state of mind when he sees the man he used to love, sitting next to the director and casting manager. Hermes needs a drink, and walks offstage to grab his water bottle at the next break.

Blood is pounding at his ears. The choreographer is saying something, but he can’t hear anything above the roaring inside his head. All he can do is return to his position and continue dancing.

He’s off tempo and he knows it. The choreographer had probably given some notes that he is definitely not following. At one point he throws his arms up and accidentally hits the person to his left.

Definitely not making it past this point. He can kiss the fur leotards goodbye.

Mercifully, the audition ends and he begins to walk offstage. Someone calls from the casting table, however, and stops him in his tracks. “Number 43? Please stay behind for a second.”

Hermes stops in his tracks and turns to face the casting table, where almost everyone is also packing up and getting ready to leave. Apparently, he was part of the last flight, and everyone is about to leave the theater.

Everyone except him and Charon, it would seem.

Hermes stays in the center of the stage and continues to stare at Charon, who lifts his head to meet his eyes. Finally getting a look at his ex’s face, it’s clear that not much has changed in the past seven years. Sure, there are more lines and sun damage, but he’s still unimaginably pale with those piercing brown eyes.

Those eyes that still manage to penetrate into Hermes’ soul, a gaze he used to adore having on him. Seven years later, he still doesn’t wither under its intensity. His mouth twists up into a familiar smirk, and all he can do is give into the grin and say,

“Hey there, Mr. Producer.”

Charon grunts and waves him over. Hermes takes a second, and then petulantly heads over to his bag first, taking a long drink of water from his water bottle. He doesn’t break eye contact the entire time, even though the angle makes it a bit difficult to not choke while drinking. After he’s done, he gives an overexaggerated exhale and heads towards Charon, who is holding out his phone in one of his ringed hands.

There’s a photo on the phone screen that Hermes recognizes immediately. “What, you’re offering me Mistofelees again? Not sure I still have twenty fouettés in me, but I’m up for it. Surprised it’s you to break the news, I’m honored.”

Charon frowns and shakes his head. Hermes gives a little laugh. Was worth a shot.

He takes a look again and realizes it’s _him_. Twenty-two years old, fresh out of conservatory, rocking the black body suit and sequins and smiling through the greasepaint like he’s having the time of his life. And as far as Hermes remembers, it _was_ one of the best times of his life.

Charon swipes and it’s him again, this time as Baby John in West Side Story—his baby-faced Broadway debut. Once more, and it’s his senior production of Urinetown. Everyone is dressed in black tracksuits and white gloves in some strange Brechtian vision only the student director understood, but he’s grinning ear to ear, his body poised like a piston ready to unload. All these pictures of him on stage, dancing, alive.

“What, missed me that much?”

Charon mumbles something under his breath, and Hermes is frustrated to realize he can’t read the older man like he used to. Words are just words to Hermes; the real language he speaks is one of subtle action, of attention paid and tasks completed. Charon is the same way; they used to fit together neatly, Hermes’ chatter filling the empty space between them while the real conversation happened underneath, a secret language of gestures and sighs.

Maybe that’s why their attempt at long distance only lasted a month. In addition to the time difference and their hectic schedules, something about their language didn’t translate over phone or video chat. The best part of being together—just being in the same space and simply _existing—_ was lost. And Hermes was too scared to pick up the threads once he was back in New York—is still terrified, in fact. Just being in Charon’s presence with nothing to say for himself.

Whatever. He sticks his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps back onstage, turning left then right. “Sorry to disappoint you then,” he calls out. “Can’t believe you’re stooping down to produce Cats, though. Time to put that one down, in my opinion. Give Phantom a shot at being longest-runner, it’ll be more thematically appropriate for you too.”

A hand angrily slams down on the casting table. The question Charon asks is clear.

“Why am I here? Because I need a job.” Hermes takes a breath after the sentence leaves his mouth. Such simple words, such a simple premise, but the reality of it all hit him like a truck. “I’m a dancer and I need a job, boss.”

Charon shrugs and messes around with his phone for a second, before holding it out again. It’s Hermes’ Instagram account, the recent photos still featuring his wild, empty life in LA.

“There wasn’t much for me in Tinseltown, boss, I’ll tell you that. Just a series of rejections, callbacks and interviews leading nowhere because surprise, nobody wants to hire a short Asian. Plus, I thought things would be different now that I’m an adult but nope, being on set is still a horrorshow I want nothing to do with. Except this time it isn’t old pops forcing me to smile for the camera, I’m torturing myself because hey, it’s Hollywood, try and make something of yourself! You have a shitty website and an IMDB page, why not try and be the thing old Zeus wanted you to be?

“So I’m back,” he says, holding out his arms out wide. “I’m back with my tail between my legs, because I am a _dancer_ and I need something to look forward to. I can’t just drive ubers all day. I can survive like that, but I don’t want to _just survive_. I’m a dancer and I need to dance. Screw acting and singing—if I don’t have to look at another script for the rest of my life, then so be it. I want to dance, I _have_ to dance to be alive. And that’s what I’m looking for here. Boss,” he smiles dryly, “Old man, old pal, I want to wake up knowing I have somewhere to go. Somewhere where I’ll be dancing.”

He takes a deep breath and takes two steps back slowly. The stage lights are all turned off, with only several incandescent bulbs doing their best to light up the entire auditorium. A few more steps back and he would probably disappear into the dark.

But he refuses. He will not go out without a trace, like a coward. Like a whisper.

Hermes will never be a whisper.

His feet begin moving, stepping to a rhythm he can only hear in his head. His arms follow, and soon he’s putting his entire back into a routine that he’s never danced before. It must look ridiculous, a grown man prancing about onstage with no music to accompany him, but he doesn’t care. He knows Charon is watching, can feel his penetrating gaze, and that’s all that matters.

Words, words are meaningless. Hermes has too much of them, always, scatters them about like litter around his feet. He’ll happily throw a million words out the window, hand it out for free on street corners. For all his talk, Hermes is terrible at talking about his feelings.

But now, disappearing into pure motion of the dance, the jumbled mess of feelings he just said to Charon are laid out neatly into a thesis. For all his words, Hermes realizes, he is no wordsmith. All the acting and singing he’s ever done are as real as puppetry; simple surface-level recital of tunes and phrases used before. Dance is different. Dance is kinetic, ever-changing. He has never landed the same jump twice. Repetition is simply a part of the formula, another aspect that can be molded and changed.

He is a dancer, and a dancer dances. Something—stubbornness, maybe, or pride—told him otherwise, convinced him to stay in California and try to make his way as an actor. A terrible decision. He cannot be told where to move or how to speak, only guided. He had known by the second year of bit roles and unemployment that he had made a mistake, but the thought of returning to New York terrified him. _This_ was what terrified him: seeing Charon again and having to explain the radio silence. Having to look the man in the face to tell him “it wasn’t you, it was me,” and how pride and fear kept Hermes from saying anything except that cruel texted “Goodbye.”

He hopes, he only hopes, that Charon understands.

While he would have gladly put on red shoes, Hermes doesn’t dance forever. Eventually he comes to a stop, his final pose reaching out to Charon at the casting table. The man is still staring impassively, and after a few seconds Hermes gives up and heads for the door. His limbs feel heavy as he hoists his bag onto his shoulders: the hours of auditioning and the impromptu dance solo taking their toll.

He can hear a chair squeak as it’s pushed back, and strong footsteps tapping across the stage towards him.

After everything, Hermes is too exhausted to look back. He keeps on going towards the door.

A hand stops him. Hermes turns around and finds himself buried in Charon’s chest, two arms wrapped protectively around him. He gasps and fills his lungs with a familiar cologne, and without one more thought returns the hug.

After everything, Charon’s arms still feel like home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after you dream ballet in front of your ex, who also has the power to give you a job? You go out for drinks, of course.

They go out for drinks after. Sitting next to his ex, to whom he just recently bared his soul out via interpretive dance, is awkward as one would imagine, but Hermes at this point is too tired and two drinks in so he might as well not give a damn.

They’re at one of their old haunts, or whatever bar has sprouted on top of their old haunts. It’s a nice place, well lit with that hipster New York vibe of management who clearly aren’t locals. Vintage movie posters line the walls, along with pictures of famous patrons and two ancient guitars. It’s a sitting down kind of bar, with a part of the bar elevated into a makeshift stage, where a half-decent bassist is doing their best to croon like Sinatra. Not somewhere Hermes would go to for a beer after work (if he had a job with a schedule that let him have beers after work), but a nice hangout spot to catch up with his ex, whom he regrettably still has feelings for after all these years. But you didn’t hear it from Hermes.

After a few awkward starts, they settle into the same banter they had before Hermes hopped on a plane to the other side of the country. He rambles, and Charon listens. Though the conversation seems one-sided, the actual communication is happening beneath the slew of inanities Hermes is spouting.

Charon is nothing if not an avid listener; he constantly interjects Hermes’ rambling with small laughs and scoffs, which fuel Hermes’ continuous extemporaneousness. What a difference an avid listener makes!

They (or more specifically, Hermes) talk until the bar closes, then Charon walks him to the parking garage. Hermes explains his living situation while they stroll through empty streets, filled with piles of garbage bags and smoking gutters. The skyscrapers stare down at them like imposing giants, but Hermes doesn’t pay them any heed standing next to the giant of a man that is Charon. Let buildings named after robber barons of the past hold up the sky; Charon is doing enough, supporting Hermes’ world.

When Hermes trips on a particularly unkempt portion of the sidewalk, Charon is there to catch him and hold him steady. The lines of contact between them—the most they’ve had since the impromptu hug at the theater—are electric, even through the layer of Hermes’ clothes. He steadies himself and adjusts his shirt, assuring Charon that he is definitely sober enough to drive, and the older man needn’t worry about him, thank you very much.

Before they part, Hermes elbows his ex(?) playfully and jokes, “My number’s still the same, if you haven’t deleted it,” before walking off to find his car.

All the confidence he has at Charon’s side dissipates as he makes the drive back to Athena’s house. When he arrives at a red light and takes a shaky breath as the car rolls to a stop, he realizes how bad it’s gotten. While the car is still stationary, Hermes takes the opportunity to take his hands of the wheel and slap his face a couple of times, ignoring the wet streaks on his cheeks.

He gets home just fine and takes a breather inside his car. Athena’s probably already asleep, though she left a light on for him. He should apologize to her tomorrow; she must have been worried with how late he stayed out tonight. Despite being a grown man, Hermes has learned after four months of living with his half-sister that the best way of dealing with Athena’s tendency to parent is to go along with it.

He checks his phone to see if there’s any new messages. A couple of worried texts from Athena, some advertisements and notifications from the various apps he has installed. No message from Charon.

He tries to ignore his disappointment

-

The next couple of days, Hermes throws himself at…well, anything really. Already an early riser, he sets an alarm for when he should be out of the house; does as many gig jobs as he can stomach, and then spends money not going towards paying Athena rent to dance classes. He shops all around the city, Googling instructors and drop-ins. He sticks with modern mostly, but drops in on a couple of hip-hop and ballet classes as well. He even takes a heels class, mostly because he really admires the instructor, and it honestly was fun dancing around five feet taller.

He is a dancer, and a dancer dances, though his wallet is starting to hurt for it.

He has three job apps on his phone, all set to screen for possible positions related to dance. After his conversation with Charon, Hermes realizes he doesn’t necessarily need to be on stage to feel fulfilled. Any opening for an instructor, choreographer, you name it: he’s looked at it and thrown in his towel, even though he has almost no experience with teaching.

Is it so hard to ask for a job doing something that he loves? Capitalism says yes.

The call comes while he’s driving. An unknown number with a New York area code—Hermes knows better than to hang up on calls like that.

It isn’t Charon—Charon doesn’t do calls, preferring to communicate through email and, if you’re lucky, text. Despite Hermes’ love of talking, he appreciates a man who lives in the twenty-first century. If only the rest of the world would catch up and realize that nobody answers phones anymore, unless they’re looking for an especially intimate conversation with a spam caller or, in Hermes case, waiting desperately for a job.

He puts his phone on speaker and greets them with his usual greeting.

“Ah yes,” the voice on the other line says, “I’m glad we are able to reach you.”

Hermes’ blood runs cold. He recognizes the voice on the other side—despite having only met her a couple of times, one does not forget a woman like Nyx. The imperious nature with which she carries herself commands memory; Hermes is sure that, at the end of the world, he would be able to recognize her in an instant. The last person with this distinction was his third-grade teacher, but when he finally did run into her at a grocery store, she was the one to recognize him. Time had done a number on the old woman, but time cannot possibly touch someone like Nyx. She will forever be standing tall with her melancholic voice and ebony hair until everyone, including Hermes, is dust.

What does one say to the owner of The Underworld—the mother of his ex, whom he recently connected with?

Probably not, “Oh yeah, hi! Hi, Madame Nyx.”

“Please, just Nyx is fine. Is this a good time?”

Hermes glances around him and sees cars parked on every side of the curb. “Um, sure,” he says, continuing on and keeping an eye out for a gas station or somewhere else to park.

“…I see. I will spare you the pleasantries, then. We are currently producing a new off-Broadway musical. It’s currently in the workshop phase, and we need a choreographer. My son has recommended I reach out to you before I look elsewhere.”

Maybe it’s an off day, maybe he needs coffee, but Hermes somehow can’t process the very short and succinct sentences being thrown his way. Half of his brain is hyperfocusing on the words “my son” (obviously Charon, who he hasn’t talked to in about a month) and the other half is frantically trying to string “off-Broadway,” “workshop,” and “choreographer” together into “holy hell Nyx is offering you a job.”

“I’d love to!” he blurts out, then looks up to see the light rapidly changing. He floors it, ignoring the angry honks of other drivers. “Um, do you need me to come in?”

“Next Monday if you are available,” Nyx replies. He definitely is. “We can talk then.”

She gives him the theater address and hangs up. Hermes keeps driving, and only lets out his breath at the next red light.

-

It turns out to be the same production that Zagreus is working on. Currently titled _Shadestown_ , it’s a Greek tragedy meets mid-century Americana, with a folk music bend distinct to Orpheus and Eurydice’s usual style. Hermes listens to the concept album, which has mostly new music that carries a cohesive narrative all on their own. It’s great, and Hermes relishes the fact that he essentially got a secret Orpheus & Eurydice album out of this gig.

The musical is sparse with singing roles, with Orpheus and Eurydice singing the bulk of the parts in the concept album, so most of the cast is still up in the air. The final ensemble number could range from five to twenty-five, and Hermes realizes with slight terror that _he_ may be the arbiter of that final decision.

Much of the music is in Orpheus & Eurydice’s folk-rock style, which is beautiful and stirring if not prime dance material. There is a character whose songs involve lots of heavy brass, one of the few roles they found an outside singer for, and those melodies are upbeat and frenetic. Hermes envisions some fancy footwork, possibly tap, done to the song, but he has to keep in mind that the actor in question is pushing 70 (and still killing it, to be fair).

There’s also a dark group chant that opens up many possibilities, and with the sparseness of the lyrics and script, many instrumental sections can be filled with motion. A story happening within the story itself.

Unsurprising for a musical debut, Orpheus and Eurydice are deeply involved with all aspects of the production. Hermes definitely felt a rush meeting them in person for the first time, after being an avid fan of their music back in their Soundcloud days. The director, too, left him awestruck.

“Mr. Achilles,” he had said as he shook his hand, “I saw you in the Les Mis tour when I was twelve and it convinced me to stay in the business.”

To his credit, Achilles had laughed and said, “I’m happy to hear that, though it was only a small part.”

Lies. He had played Enjolras, and the way he had stood proudly in his red vest had reminded Hermes of everything that he had loved about performing. That single matinee was what he wrote about when applying to Tisch. Not the various bit roles he had on Disney Channel, but the clarity of seeing what a pile of rubble, a red vest, and the shared imagination of an audience can do.

Doing musicals meant singing, dancing, and acting. Eventually he gravitated more towards dance rather than voice; classes where he was allowed to move and expend his excess energy were much preferred to classes where he just stood around doing scales and repeating the same words over and over. If he couldn’t talk, he much preferred it to be due to the burning in his lungs as he pushed his body to the limit, rather than because he was forced to say words he didn’t mean in a key he was just a half step off.

As Hermes goes to his job each day, still dancing but no longer onstage, he wonders if his past self would be happy with how things turned out. Present Hermes is just ecstatic he has a job where he is paid to dance. Past Hermes had bigger dreams though; California just has a way of crushing them.

It’s strange seeing Achilles as a director, given his laurels as a performer. At his age he should be fulfilling the classic Les Mis prophecy of playing Jean Valjean; he clearly has the range for it. Yet here he is, backstage instead of in the spotlight. Maybe it has to do with his slight limp and the cane he now carries, but Hermes keeps his questions to himself.

The rest of the crew is similarly tight knit, with Dusa the stage manager holding everyone together with a latte and a prayer. He honestly thinks she has figured out a way of teleporting, with how she just appears right when she is needed and vanishes right afterwards. He learns from Zagreus that Nyx has put her on probation, which he simply cannot understand given that she may have just as much if not more restless energy that he has.

Speaking of his cousin, working with him is a welcome change to the usual family interactions Hermes is used to having. Zagreus is both passionate about what he does and laid-back enough that he can stand Hermes’ jovial ribbing. Despite their roles having very little overlap, he still sees Zag around often, though he has a suspicion that he’s not the reason why his cousin is hanging out in the dance studio.

To Hermes’ great relief, he isn’t the _sole_ choreographer attached to the project. The other choreographer, Megaera, was hired near the same time, and together they neatly divide the workload: where Hermes is fast and frenetic, Megaera is trained and controlled. He trusts her with the microgestures and adagios, while he can focus on the group dances and upbeat numbers.

“Yeah, not able to do that,” he remarks when he catches her stretching at the barre, legs at almost a 180 angle.

“Thought dancers are supposed to be flexible,” she snarks in her standard monotone. “What do you have going for you then?”

Hermes just grins as he makes double finger-guns in her direction. “Speed,” he winks.

He hears her scoff as he turns to leave the studio and chuckles to himself. Meg may seem abrasive on the outside, but he’s seen the way she chats with Dusa and volunteers to run errands if necessary. A veritable sweetheart wrapped in an acerbic shell—he’s used to dealing with people like that.

As he traipses along the hallways of The Underworld, thinking of which food cart to hit for his lunch break, he catches site of a tall figure wearing an all-too familiar hat and quickly ducks behind a corner.

The one person in the production crew who isn’t slowly getting assimilated into the cozy family picture that is Shadestown: Charon, the producer. The person who got Hermes his job. His ex.

He’s stopped by a couple of times since Hermes started, but Hermes has made a point to avoid him the best he can. How dare he show up to the theater when he still hasn’t called?

Unfortunately for Hermes, he is currently hiding at the end of a hallway, and as footsteps draw nearer, he has no choice but to nonchalantly lean against the wall as Charon approaches.

“Helloooooo, fellow associate,” he croons once Charon rounds the corner. “Funny seeing you here.”

Charon stares down at him, his face half-obscured by that goddamn fedora. Part of his mouth quirks up in a smile, and Hermes hates to admit it but he’s glad to see him.

With his usual bluntness, Charon reminds Hermes that he is the one writing the checks for the production. Hermes fakes surprise and, in a jumble of words coming straight from his mouth without consulting any part of his brain, suggests that they go to lunch together.

“You don’t have to wine and dine me like a sponsor, just come hit up a food cart with me.”

Charon blinks but doesn’t refuse, and soon the two of them are walking along the narrow street of Manhattan until they wind up in a line for Greek food. Once it’s their turn in line, Hermes rambles off orders for both of them before Charon has a chance to pull out his phone and type his order.

Hermes looks up at his…professional associate…and gives a shrug. “A remnant of old times, I guess. Is lamb gyro and fries still good for you?”

Charon is taken aback, but nods after a few seconds.

Hermes insists on paying for the two of them, and only the growing impatience of the people behind them cut the bill scuffle short.

“Lunch is on me because I owe ya,” Hermes says as they continue walking away from the theater, their final destination unclear. The lunchtime bustle means they eventually have to walk single file; they used to walk like this when they met for lunch years ago, except back then they would stubbornly hold hands, or Hermes would have his hand on Charon’s briefcase, or Charon on Hermes’ backpack. As it stands, Hermes simply follows the tall shadow that is Charon, wherever he may lead.

They end up on a bench in Bryant Park, sitting side by side with a rail between them.

They eat in silence for all of two minutes before Hermes blurts out between bites, “Thanks again for getting me the job.”

Charon glances at him, fry in hand, and shrugs.

“I mean it. Choreographer jobs like that don’t just fall from the sky, and I have next to nothing on my resume related to that. Not to mention I get to collaborate with a band I really like—wait, is that why you got me the job?”

[No, I got you the job because you said you needed one.] Charon signs, with the same matter of fact motions he had used back when they were dating and he would present Hermes with all sorts of gifts simply because Hermes had mentioned it during one of his ramblings.

Hermes has always been uncomfortable with such gifts. Purchases he can do; petty theft, something he may or may not have dipped his fingers into when he was younger. But completely nontransactional acts of love and kindness? Such things don’t happen in his family. He’s paying his own half-sister rent to stay in her guest room because otherwise he would owe her a blood debt.

Even after disappearing for all of seven years, Charon is still willing to provide if Hermes so much as asked.

“Why me?” he asks quietly.

Charon doesn’t reply, choosing instead to fish around his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Hermes grimaces as he puts one to his lips and lights it. “Still haven’t quit, huh?” Charon simply rolls his eyes.

A hand moves towards him, and for a moment Hermes thinks Charon is offering him a smoke, which, no thanks, tried it as a freshman in college and hated the taste. Just as he is about to push the hand away, however, he realizes that Charon is offering him the last of his fries.

“You’ll never bulk up if that’s all you eat, you know,” Hermes teases, accepting the fries. “Going to remain a skeleton forever, while I lose my figure eating these dangerous, dangerous carbs. Is Meg putting you up to this? Do you want me out of the production?”

Startled at the accusation, Charon shakes his head. Hermes takes the opportunity to steal the cigarette from the producer’s fingers and jokingly takes a puff. His eyes water and his lungs are burning, but he’s far too stubborn to cough.

“You’re bad for me,” he whispers, and before all the smoke dissipates from his mouth he grabs Charon by the lapel and kisses him.

It tastes of smoke and familiarity, and for one panicked second Hermes wonders if he had read the signals wrong. Then Charon puts one hand to the back of his head and grabs a fistful of his hair, holding him in place, and he sighs in relief.

There are tears in his eyes when he pulls back from the kiss. The smoke, he tells himself. Definitely the smoke.

“Why didn’t you reach out to me?” Hermes whispers, resting his head against the comfortable expanse of Charon’s chest.

He opens his eyes to see Charon sign, [I got a new phone. I don’t have your number anymore.]

Hermes can’t do anything but laugh at his own folly, hands digging into Charon’s expensive suit and irreparably wrinkling it as he laughs and laughs. Charon taps him on the shoulder, and when he looks up sees the other man ask,

[Why were you avoiding me?]

“Because you didn’t call.”

Charon looks at him with such wide, expectant eyes, the rare vulnerability Hermes knows is for him and him alone. He sighs and reaches up to touch that beautiful face, fingertips resting along the high cheekbones and sharp jawline of the man who would still give him the world if he asked.

“So,” he breathes, tipping Charon’s hat up to look him better in the eyes. “Are we doing this? Trying again?”

Charon’s face is impassive, but from the way he stands up and extends his hand to Hermes, he is obviously nervous. Hermes looks down and notices that his own hand is trembling.

Charon is opening the door to him. And Hermes crosses the threshold without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE, it's a Hadestown crossover! My apologies to Anais Mitchell and all the wonderful folks at Hadestown for butchering their great musical for fanfiction purposes. 
> 
> I fully admit that the first time I saw Achilles my brain went "DILF Enjolras? :0" and I am putting it here. 
> 
> There will now be a chapter 3 because I am impatient and there are scenes I want to write that don't fit the relative flow of the story.

**Author's Note:**

> I present a Highly Specific AU to the fandom. 
> 
> This is based heavily on A Chorus Line and "Music and the Mirror." Highly recommend the musical and the documentary based on the Broadway revival, which some lines/scenarios are lifted verbatim.
> 
> I am not an expert on how Broadway works, only a fan.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
